


Behind the Mask

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dreamwalking, M/M, Mild Gore, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hag's spell, Dean's trapped inside his own mind and Sam has to go rescue his brother. What he finds in Dean's head may be more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Mask

It could be any one of a hundred-thousand flea-bag motels they've lived in except instead of the vague scent of age and off-brand cleaning products, everything from the beige wallpaper to the stained carpet and pock-marked ceiling has Dean-ness radiating out from it, leaching into Sam's skin until it's like his brother has settled all the way into his bones. It shouldn't surprise Sam at all that this feels like home.

There aren't any light fixtures on the walls, no bulbs recessed into the ceiling, but there's light anyway - uniform and bright, not doing the place any favors - all the way down the empty hall. He's standing in the middle of it and with the way the walls curve, it looks like the place just goes on forever. Then again, it's Dean's head, so it probably does go on forever just to screw with Sam.

There are blank doors all along the way, spaced at perfect intervals and this is so fucking real that if he didn't know better, he'd swear this was all actually happening. All he has to tell him that it isn't is the thick, burnt-hair taste in the back of his throat from the herbs; his only connection to his own body lying back at Bobby's place.

Sam cracks his knuckles - the sound loud enough that he jarringly realizes he's not hearing the subtle shuff of his own breath - and turns in a circle again, half-expecting something to have changed behind his back, but it hasn't; still empty, bland nothingness. Enough stalling then: time to see what's behind door number one.

The room he enters is just as nondescript as the hallway - two beds, and it touches Sam deep down like sticky fingers leaving a stain, that even in Dean's subconscious he's making a place for his little brother. He walks aimlessly forward, examining every plain detail even though there's nothing exceptional to see. He thumbs over an old travel alarm clock on the bedside table - tortoise shell plastic, glow-in-the-dark arms, ticking loud enough in the silence that he can feel his heartbeat slowing to match it out of respect. Dad used to have one like that, he thinks, maybe when Sam was little.

"Whatcha doing, Sammy?" The drawl makes Sam nearly jump out of his skin.

Dean's leaning on the wall next to the door Sam came through - closed now, though he's sure he left it open - arms crossed, one foot braced against the baseboards behind him. He's wearing his leather jacket, the amulet, jeans and a black tee. Nondescript, just like everything else. Sam's made a few cracks over the years about his brother having no imagination, but c'mon, dude!

"Dean! Jesus Christ, I was going out of my mind" he was just going to choose to ignore that pun, "Are you ok? What's going on?"

Dean's expression doesn't change; lips quirked in the tiniest hint of a smirk, eyes glistening dangerously in the light. Like he's going to attack. Like he's going to attack Sam, and against all of his instincts Sam forces himself to relax. Dean won't hurt him, would never hurt him.

"Dean?" he asks when his brother shows no sign of answering, "What's wrong? You've been asleep for days man, what happened? The hag's spell should have worn off by now."

Dean still hadn't moved, eyes following Sam intently as he stepped in closer. Sam lifted a hand slowly, reaching out to his brother even though he was still too far away to touch, silently begging for some sign that everything was ok. Dean tracked the movement until Sam froze, then finally met Sam's eyes again. The older man pushed away from the wall, stepping just close enough that if Sam lifted his fingers a little more they would brush his brother's stubbled jaw line. He went to do just that, a staggering need to touch Dean, make sure he was real, overwhelming Sam and then there was an iron grip around his wrist, tugging it away, throwing him backward into one of the springy beds.

The Dean he'd been about to touch hissed furiously, sharp teeth bared at another, almost identical Dean - the one who had flung Sam across the room.

The one who'd protected Sam positioned himself between his baby brother and the... whatever kind of monster it was that was posing as Dean. Sam's protector raised the Colt - which appeared in his hands from thin air - and the creature backed off, snarled viciously and soundlessly winked out of existence.

"Sammy, are you ok?" Dean asked, rushing across the room to help his little brother up. Sam let himself be pulled to his feet, laying his hands on the body-warmed leather of Dean's jacket for reassurance. This was Dean, his Dean.

"What the hell was that?" he stammered. God it was so tempting just to close those few inches of space and hug into Dean's warmth. He'd really thought he might have lost his brother this time; after all of the demons and monsters, through hell and back, to just have to stand there and watch Dean fade away into his own mind.

"You can't trust things in here, Sammy, it's not safe." Dean warned, surreptitiously checking Sam over for injuries.

"C'mon Dean, we need to get out of here," he pleaded, tugging on the thick sleeve of Dean's jacket until they were back out in the empty hallway. "Tell me everything you know about that thing. If we can figure out what it is then Bobby and I can find a way to kill it."

"You can't kill it Sam," Dean said, planting his feet and effectively halting the almost-run Sam had them moving down the never-ending hall in.

"We'll find a way," Sam insisted, tugging on Dean's arm again. It wasn't like he knew where he was going, or even that there was anywhere to go, but with a lifetime of running under his belt, moving naturally felt safer. "I'm not going to let that thing keep you here!"

Dean cocked his head to the side curiously, eyes narrowed.

"Sam, I'm supposed to be here."

"No! Dean, this isn't real, it's all in your head," Sam pleaded, pressing his long hands to the sides of his brother's face. Dean’s skin was hot, the prickling rasp of stubble against his palm so real that Sam thumbed along his brother’s chin to feel it again. It's a move that Dean would never let him get away with in real life, but here he just accepts it, angling his face slightly into the contact, "I took some of that dream-root just to get here, to try and bring you back! It's just in your head!"

"I know." Dean's voice is behind him now even though he's still staring right into his brother's thick-lashed eyes. Sam turns his head automatically to face the voice but somewhere in the middle of the move, everything tilts to the side, tumbling over itself.

They're back in the motel room again, except maybe it's not the same one because instead of the alarm clock there's a framed picture on the bedside table, but he can't make out the subject from here.

Dean's shirtless now, smooth, unmarked skin, muscles rippling in an easy gait as he closes the space between them.

"Missed you so much, Sammy" Dean breathes, cupping a hand to Sam's neck and leaning in.

"Stop it," says Dean's voice behind him and Sam thinks it's the Dean from out in the hall, the one who protected him. He's just standing there now though, watching as the shirtless Dean leans in close enough that his breath is mingling with Sam's. "He's your brother, you can't-"

Dean's lips are soft over Sam's just brushing against the flesh in a tease of a kiss and it shouldn't possibly feel this good because it's the monster, right? It has to be, but it feels so much like he's always imagined Dean would feel. So warm and smooth and he's pressing into it just that little bit more to make it a real kiss. The shirtless Dean moans, fingers sliding up Sam's back - hot skin on hot skin; he's not sure how he got naked, but he can feel that he is. There's denim and leather pressing too-cool against his back too, another tickling breath in his ear even though he's still got Dean's mouth pressed firm against his own.

"Won't let you hurt him," his brother's voice rings harsh and a broad hand is gripping at his arms, trying to pull him away from the identical ones holding him close, fingertips stroking lightly over the delicate column of his throat.

"Not going to hurt him," the shirtless - now naked; hard, perfect - Dean murmurs, the words making his damp lips catch and pull against Sam's. It just gets Sam opening up for more even though his common sense is screaming that he shouldn't; this isn't what he's here for and it's got to be a trap but Dean's body pressed bare and needy against his is so tantalizing he can't stop himself. "Don't want to hurt him, never hurt him, need him. My Sammy." There's so much love in the words that Sam aches with it, sinks right into it when Dean opens his mouth against Sam's and lets their tongues play wetly against each other.

The Dean behind him tightens his grip but doesn't try to pull Sam away anymore, just presses in, breathes into Sam's hair like he's desperate for the scent.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he whispers and Sam can feel the hot sting of tears as they hit his shoulders, "Supposed to protect you, why can't I protect you?" The hold around Sam squeezes in closer on both sides and he can't quite stop kissing Dean - so lost, needs to stop, has to stop, has to rescue Dean - so he reaches one hand back over his shoulder, tugs his protector's head in, holds it in place as he sobs into Sam's hair.

"Not good enough to protect him," the voice is cold and so full of malice that Sam almost doesn't recognize it as his brother's when it rings out beside them. He does stop kissing then, pulls his mouth away with so much effort that he's gasping from it but the naked Dean just moves down to sucking at the flittering pulse in his neck instead, with hot, hungry suction. His protector's paying attention though, grip contracting even further around Sam's waist until he's not sure he'll be able to breathe if this goes on any longer.

The Dean who spoke looks even worse than his voice made out. He's standing in the door to a bathroom Sam hadn't noticed before, blood dripping off of his hands to pitter-patter on the join of plastic tile and the carpet. The crimson fluid is all over his neck too, running down his jaw, with little mock-freckle splatters of it all over his face, but it doesn't look like he's hurt. It looks like he's been slaughtering something with his bare hands.

"No," the voice behind Sam grinds out, but he can feel his brother's body shaking.

"Never good enough to protect him," pours out of that gory mouth like a dump of ice water into Sam's veins, "Never good enough for anything. Not for Dad, not for Sam, not even for Cassie and half of that was pretend. You can't even lie your way into being good enough."

The naked Dean slides his hands down Sam's chest, kissing at his collar bone, the swell of his pecs, swirling that hot, wicked tongue over a nipple and it's so distracting, so hard to keep track of what's going on.

What IS going on? What the hell is this?

"Pathetic waste," the bloodstained Dean spits, eyes all for the man behind Sam, "It should have been you and you know it. They all would all have been better off if Yellow Eyes had come for you instead. Then YOU could have died, finally made yourself useful."

"Stop," Sam hears himself growling because he can't let this thing say that to his brother. It's not true, it's not right, it has to stop because he can feel Dean behind him, trembling like he's going to come apart, fingertips bruising into Sam's ribs with the pressure of holding on. The blood-stained Dean ignored him completely.

"You belong in hell, nothing but trouble anyway. They were happier before you came back."

"Stop it!" Sam yells and finally the bloody Dean notices he's there. A crimson sneer over glistening white teeth - not sharp, not the creature from before - is aimed right at him and it makes his stomach roil like he's going to puke all over the floor but at least it's not talking to his brother anymore.

"See, even need your baby brother stand up for you, sick freak. Do you think he would, if he knew your secrets? Think he'd still love you if he knew how many times you've come with his name on your lips? How much you love the nights when he's bleeding and strung out on pain-killers so you can crawl into bed behind him and rub one out to the smell of his skin?"

The naked Dean is on his knees now, mouthing at Sam's rock-hard cock; flash of pink tongue lapping at the leaking, swollen head sending electric sizzles through Sam's body. For one mind-rending instant he's nowhere - hanging in the balance between the pleasure he's been starving for since he could understand what real pleasure was and the gut-wrenching, all consuming need to protect Dean from the thing in front of him and the fear that there's no way he CAN protect him because this, all of this, is really Dean; all the stuff that's happening inside of his brother every second of every day and no wonder Dean can't get out of the hag's spell on his own.

Dean's on his knees, still naked, but not sucking now. Not hard and hungry and desperate. Not shaking and broken or bloody. Just Dean, scarred and beautiful, hugging his knees with his eyes clenched tight like maybe it will all just go away if he wishes hard enough.

Sam's draped over him in a second, as naked and scarred as his brother; still hard, but it doesn't matter anymore.

"Dean, oh God, Dean." His voice is wrecked, and he ought to say something important, ought to fix this somehow, but if there are words for it, Sam doesn't know them, so all that keeps pouring from his lips over and over in grit-and-razor-wire syllables is the first word he ever spoke, the only word that ever mattered, "Dean".

Who the hell knows how long they were like that, if there was even such a thing as time here, but by the time Dean's muscles begin to loosen under Sam's grip, his eyelashes fluttering open in butterfly kisses against Sam's shoulder, Sam's voice is gone completely, nothing but the shape of the word curving his mouth and the noiseless puff of breath.

"Sam?" The word comes out of Dean's mouth thick with disuse, but no worse for wear. Wide, rough palms slide over Sam's sides, cradle the back of his head until finally he can force himself through the burning haze of panic to pull back and look at his brother. Dean's eyes are wide and shiny-green and whole in a way that Sam didn't realize was missing from the others until he was looking right at it. The corners of Dean's plush mouth quiver like the start of a smile that doesn't quite come and-

Blinding flash like looking into the heart of a lightning strike. It leaves the vision of Bobby's slatted ceiling swimming and discolored in front of his eyes like an overexposed photograph. His skull tries to split into pieces when the sharp jangle of his cell phone reaches his ears but he fumbles for it anyway, his hand scavenging around on the couch cushions. At last manages to find it and pull it up to his ear.

"Sam?" Bobby sounds urgent and concerned and Sam's stomach hits the floorboards and keeps right on going. What if it didn't work? What if he hadn't brought Dean back with him? What if Dean was… "He's ok, he's awake. Sam? You hear me? Sam!?"

Sam's brain slowly shifts into gear, his thoughts slogging through relief like frozen molasses. He opens his mouth to respond but all that comes out is a crackle of meaningless noise. So that part hadn't been a dream, then. He can hear the beep of heart monitors in the tense silence on the other end of the line and then a deep rumble of words he can't make out but a voice he'd know even if he went deaf. Dean.

Clearing his throat feels like swallowing broken glass but he manages to get out enough of a squeak that Bobby understands the affirmative.

"Alright, boy. You stay there, we're gonna get things squared away here and get back there as quick as we can. Don't pull anything stupid, alright? Just rest."

The line goes dead and Sam lays his head back on the scratchy arm of Bobby's couch - maybe Bobby'd been right about doing this in a bed instead, he could already feel the slow cramp in his shoulder. The room still smells sickeningly of the herbs they'd used and he wonders how long they'll have to live with the stench. Dean will probably want to get on the road right away, put this mess behind them and get on to the next one, but a couple of days to recuperate wouldn't be all bad. Oh well, Sam thinks, arching up a little bit to stretch his tensed muscles, they'll figure it out.

***

The first thing Dean does when he and Bobby get back - after an awkward, stilted hug with Sam - is cut the hospital bracelet off of his wrist. There's bound to be a perfectly good pair of scissors around, but Dean uses his favorite knife on the stretchy plastic, a vision of blood-smeared hands wiping in front of Sam's eyes and he plays off the sound of his heavy swallow as clearing his throat again.

Sam can't blame his brother for hating hospitals - God knows he does too after everything they've been through in them - but he still isn't completely convinced that Dean shouldn't have gotten one last quick look over by a doctor. Every time Sam writes that on his legal pad though - a temporary fix until his voice has healed; one that Dean's enjoying way too much, constantly threatening to take Sam's pen away - his brother complains about Sam's handwriting and says he can't read it, even after Sam puts it down in big block print.

Dean still seems to understand being flipped off, though.

Sam can't really bring himself to mind his brother's attitude; for a while there, he thought he'd never get to hear Dean pick on him again, and with everything Sam had been privy to rattling around in Dean's skull, he can't really be surprised that his brother has the 'be a jerk to Sammy' mask on tight.

He doesn't know exactly how much of all that Dean remembers, but the idea alone of Sam poking around in his subconscious is probably enough to make Dean nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs - ok, time to stop hanging out with Bobby - and what kind of little brother would Sam be if he didn't use some of his new found knowledge to his advantage?

Bobby's clattering around upstairs, ostensibly putting together some herb packets to help ward off any future hag attacks, but more likely just sick of being referee in the Winchester War of Lewd Gestures. Sam scribbles something on his notepad hurriedly and when Dean steps in close, face screwed up as he tries to decipher the tiny scrawl, Sam takes the opportunity to swoop down and suddenly capture Dean's lips in a soft, dry kiss.

Dean gasps but doesn't pull away, just stands there with Sam's lips pressed against him, tingling and warm and real. Sam lets them linger like that, not moving or pressing for more, just soaking in the warmth of their mingled breath, his cock twitching with the sense-memory of how perfect that mouth had felt around him in Dean's mind. There's a bright, sharp thrill, when he finally pulls away, to watching the shock on Dean's face give way to a bright pink blush that darkens his freckles. Sam feels ridiculously giddy about it, even though he's completely wrung out.

Dean's face pulls a whole slew of semi-expressions, never quite managing to settle on one before Bobby's coming down the stairs and Sam steps around his brother to give Bobby a hand with the armful of dried plants he's carrying, landing a covert slap on Dean's ass on the way out of the room.

Honestly, Sam hasn't got a clue where they're going to go from here or what to do about some of the things he saw in Dean's mind. There's obviously a hell of a lot to work out – against all odds, Dean just might be more fucked up than Sam is - and not all of it Sam can help with, but this… this is something they both want, and for once in their lives, they've got a shot at something worth having. Sam's not giving that up without a fight… although maybe he'll drag it out just a little longer. It's not often he gets to see Dean blush.


End file.
